


Maybe I Will

by slateblueflowers



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Aziraphale is a Mess (Good Omens), Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), F/M, Gabriel is a dick, Inspired by School of Rock, M/M, Mutual Pining, Principal Aziraphale, References to Homophobia, Teacher Crowley (Good Omens), fight me, references to child neglect, tw: aziraphale's name is phil, tw: catholicism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:41:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24311470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slateblueflowers/pseuds/slateblueflowers
Summary: 'Dear Lord,' he thought, 'we've hired a man with a face tattoo.'A School of Rock inspired AU.Thank you to the AceOmens discord for enabling Aziraphale's new name and to the lovely kampix for beta'ing!
Relationships: Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 80
Collections: My favorite AU fics





	1. Chapter 1

Phil was rummaging through his desk again. He shuffled a small mountain of free pens he’d accumulated to the corner of the drawer, angling his head down to peer into its depths. Not finding what he was looking for, he sat up and scanned the office, exhaling and running a hand through his unruly white curls. His golden signet ring glinted under the fluorescents. The room wasn’t messy, he thought. Just a bit cluttered. Sure, there were precarious stacks of books in two corners, but that was because his wall of bookshelves had become unmanageably full.

No, you couldn’t see his wall calendar, but only because he couldn’t bear to purge his collection of letters and mementos from past students. His nameplate was covered, sure, but it read ‘Aziraphale’ rather than the name his colleagues knew him by, and the conversation wasn’t worth the hassle. And yes, his desk was buried under a collection of one-pagers and handouts from old staff meetings, but everything had its place and he knew exactly where that place was. Except now, and when he had a spectacular idea for a novel that he _had to write down right now or he’d forget it and if he didn’t put it into his journal it would never make it onto his computer and then into existence and he had to find his journal right this very instant where the he-_

A knock at the door jerked Phil from his thoughts and the increasingly frantic spinning in place. Ah, the real reason he had arrived particularly early today. Stretching his neck to straighten his bowtie, he strode purposefully towards the door.

He was certainly not expecting this man to be on the other side of the door.

The man before him was _supposed_ to be the new music teacher at St. Isidore’s Academy, a top-tier four-year college preparatory high school widely known for its exceptional alumni, influential donors, and location in the bustling heart of Washington, D.C.

This couldn’t be him. This man, dressed like a goth David Bowie pursuing a professorship, appeared far too hip for St. Isidore’s. His short red hair was artfully tousled, and he was clad entirely in black, down to his surprisingly shiny shoes. _Are those… snakeskin?_ A tailored blazer offset tight jeans, and a delicate silver chain hung around his neck. Phil’s eyes flicked up to meet the new man’s gaze, landing instead on a dark smudge on the right side of his face. Before he had time to alert the man to the smudge, the stranger spoke.

“Hi – Crowley. Anthony J. Crowley, that is.” He stuck out his hand, plastering a smile on his face that Phil knew was too professional to be genuine.

“Phil Eastgate, pleasure to meet you at last. We’re quite excited to have you join our team, Anthony!” The man’s hand felt cool to the touch despite the August heat. “Have you had a tour of the school yet? I would be more than happy to show you around if you’ve got the time. I’m sure you’re terribly busy, I know how much time it takes to properly move-in to your classroom, as it were.”

“It’s just Crowley. And thanks, a tour would be lov – ”

“Oh, and you’ve got something,” Phil gestured at the side of his own face, straining to get a better look at Crowley’s smudge, “it’s just – ” Phil stopped himself short, face warming. What he had believed to be a bit of dirt or perhaps a stray pen mark was in fact the image of a snake, looped up and around itself. _A tattoo_ , thought Phil, _Dear Lord, we’ve hired a man with a face tattoo_.

“Oh, yes. It’s a tattoo, but thank you. A remnant of a by-gone era. A monument to bad decisions. A lesson for students to learn about the permanence of ink shot under your skin.” Crowley grinned and reached fingers loaded with mismatched silver rings up to his tattoo. “Marjorie said it wouldn’t be a problem when we interviewed.”

Despite his best efforts, Phil hadn’t been present at Crowley’s interview. The National Association of School Principals had convened that weekend, and though the conference was located only a few miles away, he hadn’t been able to find time for interviews in his schedule. After approving each applicants’ credentials and references, Phil had left the actual interviewing to his right-hand and Assistant Principal, Marjorie Potts. Marjorie had worked longer at St. Isidore’s than Phil. For that matter, Phil wasn’t aware of anyone on campus or on the School Board who had known life at St. Isidore’s before Marjorie. With brilliant red hair, a smile wide enough to block a hallway, and a sneaky slyness that struck fear into the high schoolers’ hearts, Marjorie was a dynasty unto herself. When Crowley received her stamp of approval, Phil wasted no time in beginning the hiring process. He trusted Marjorie implicitly. If she thought hiring Crowley was the right call for St. Isidore’s Very Catholic and Very Uptight Academy, Phil would have to move past whatever hang-ups he may have about the man.

“Not a problem at all, my dear boy,” Phil smiled warmly. “Let’s begin our tour, shall we?”

“Lead away,” Crowley said, shoving the tips of his fingers into his pockets. The pair proceeded towards the main hallway of the school, a vast echoing space with high ceilings. Sunlight was beginning to filter through skylights that followed the path of the main hall.

“The Fine Arts Building is located just to the side of the athletic fields. It’s a bit of a walk from the front doors, but,” Phil chanced a conspiratorial smirk towards Crowley, eyes twinkling as if he was sharing a particularly juicy bit of gossip, “that building is the only one with windows that open. Your predecessor never seemed to take advantage of the fresh air, which seemed a waste to me. To each their own, I suppose, but really, with the amount of sun we get here…”

“So not from around here either, then?” Crowley said through a small smile.

Phil chuckled. “Marjorie did mention your accent. No, I’m from London originally, but I’ve lived in the States for, oh, twenty-five years now? I arrived here straight after university and found myself in love with the work.” He pointed. “Through there is the cafeteria. We do have a raised stage area that you can use for performances if you would like, but nearby churches have graciously provided their space for us before. Just down this hall,” Crowley’s head turned down a hallway adorned with multiple fire extinguishers mounted to the walls, “are the science labs.”

Phil continued, describing each of the hallways they passed. He knew full well that each hallway appeared identical to the last, especially before teachers adorned the endless white walls with student work, and that the building could be quite imposing to newcomers. He gestured to the small plaques affixed to the wall where the hallway split from the main thoroughfare.

“Each hallway has a name, too.” Crowley’s lip quirked. “In case you ever need to give directions.”

“Right.”

They came to the door leading outside. The late-summer sun was blinding. Crowley’s hand darted into the pocket of his black blazer, drawing out sunglasses and positioning them on his face in one smooth movement. It was terribly cool.

Phil groaned inwardly. _Oh, God help me_ , _the students will love him_.

As the two walked in silence past the lush athletic fields, Phil attempted to take stock of his new colleague and realized he had said very little since the office.

 _He can’t possibly think me unworthy of conversation,_ Phil’s mind provided. _Perhaps he’s nervous. Or he fancies himself a quirky, soulful artist. That would explain the black, after all._

Finally, they arrived at the Fine Arts Building.

“Your classroom is just through those double doors and to the left, Mr. Crowley. We’ll be meeting in the cafeteria for our first staff meeting of our in-service week at 9am sharp. Please let me know if there is any way I can be of service.”

“Wonderful. Yes. See you then,” Crowley replied, long legs already propelling him towards the room. Phil allowed a stiff smile as he turned on his heel. Stepping back into the quickly warming morning, he adjusted his bowtie again. He was used to people dismissing him quickly, writing him off as a soft old fool, a doddering professor type with his head in the clouds. And he knew his bowties and circular golden glasses did little to help this image. When his bowtie felt sufficiently straightened, he rolled his shoulders back and retraced his steps back towards his office.

_Not every staff member has to like you. You don’t have to like every staff member. You are the leader of this school, and your focus should be on your students._

_He is **not** like **him**. _

_Just do your job._


	2. Chapter 2

Crowley sighed as the door to his classroom closed behind him. The blank white walls shone in the early morning sunlight, giving Crowley the feeling that even if the rest of his life was in shambles right now, at least he had a decent view. The room overlooked the athletic fields and the mismatched buildings of Washington, D.C. spread out beyond the fences. A high ceiling and strategically placed acoustic panels spoke of the money St. Isidore’s poured into the fine arts program, but Crowley knew that he couldn’t teach in a space that lacked his personal touches. Sighing at the morning ahead of him, he turned on his heel and marched out to his car to retrieve the boxes upon boxes of classroom supplies. He had work to do.

\---

As he organized his classroom, Crowley paid close attention to his watch. In previous years, he wouldn’t have cared at all about arriving on time to professional development sessions, sauntering into the room several minutes late and shooting a lopsided smirk at the disgruntled administrators. He knew that given his recent past, though, punctuality may be the better call today. The more he appeared to follow the rules, the less likely he’d be thrown out on his ear again.

Crowley arrived in the cafeteria for the opening session a minute before nine. _On time but not too on time,_ he reasoned with himself as he affected his best nonchalant stroll towards a seat in the back. He may need to ingratiate himself here, but he was still Anthony J. Crowley after all. Anthony J. Crowley did what he did with style, damn it.

All of the cafeteria tables pointed towards a projection screen that must have been brought in for occasions such as these. The principal he had met earlier – _what was his surname? Eastgate?_ – was standing next to the screen. He stood with impeccable posture, back straight and hands clasped neatly in front of him. The man was surveying the crowd, and Crowley wondered if he knew his lips were pursed. The principal cleared his throat to signal quiet. Crowley rested his chin on his hands and let his mind begin to wander, mentally preparing himself for the usual Beginning-of-Year-Best-Year-Ever-Yay-Go-Team spiel.

“Welcome back to St. Isidore’s, everyone! It’s good to see so many familiar faces, and a few new ones as well.” Eastgate’s eyes met Crowley’s. “Today we begin our week of in-service. On your tables you will find a detailed schedule of events for each day, for which you may thank Ms. Marjorie Potts. As you can see…”

Crowley immediately seized the schedule from the stack with a swiftness that earned him a reproachful look from a woman several seats away with a rather severe hairstyle. He paid the woman no mind, as his world had narrowed to the paper in front of him. Crowley frantically scanned the document for every moment of time he could work in his classroom alone, quickly losing track of the principal’s speech. The words “…for which you may also thank Marjorie!” faintly registered.

“Oh, Aziraphale, you do flatter me so!”

Crowley looked up from the paper, left eyebrow quirked.

“Aziraphale?” he muttered. The man sitting next to him leaned over.

“Yeah, Aziraphale’s his first name. Everyone just calls him Phil. Can you blame him, though, with a name like that?” he whispered.

“Mmm…no, I suppose not,” Crowley replied quietly. _Must have been a tough name to have as a kid, that’s for sure_. He glanced up at Eastgate again. The man had stepped closer to the projector screen to gesture at some figures related to test scores, but Crowley wasn’t listening. He was staring at the way the projector light lit up Eastgate’s blonde curls. His hair was nearly white and had gone translucent in the light, surrounding his head like a downy halo. When he smiled at the crowd of teachers in front of him, his eyes crinkled and seemed to spark with excitement. Round cheeks were pink with the effort of projecting his voice. While he spoke, Crowley thought about angels.

\---

The first day of school arrived with far less pomp and circumstance than Crowley had expected of a posh school like St. Isidore’s. Before long the hallways, now adorned with motivational welcome back posters, were filled with chattering students. From his post at the entrance to the Fine Arts Building, Crowley could pick out the freshman easily and wondered which skittish fourteen year-olds would wander into his classroom.

The bell rang to indicate the start of class. It would have sounded like church bells tolling had it not been piped through the intercom system.

Crowley entered his classroom with a carefully deliberate swagger, letting the door swing closed behind him. He knew that his all-black ensemble, dangling silver necklaces, and snake tattoo cut a striking figure at first, but he also knew that being authentic was the key to building good relationships with students. Presenting someone who wasn’t himself both made him uncomfortable and threw him off his game. He saw his clothing and his classroom as extensions of himself, which is why plants dotted the room and a rainbow pride flag hung from his desk. Here, Crowley was comfortable. This was his element. The room quieted on its own and Crowley allowed himself a small grin.

“Right, you all. I’m Crowley – none of that ‘Mister’ nonsense – just call me Crowley. I’ll be your music instructor this year. We’ll cover a number of topics. Those are all laid out on your syllabus.” He handed a stack of papers to the student nearest him, a girl with curly brown hair and red leather boots. “Make sure you grab one now and hold onto them; these are the only copies you’ll get from me. Being a musician means being responsible for your things, despite what the magazines tell you. Show up to a gig with your guitar but no capo and you’re outta luck. Try to audition for a symphony without sheet music and you’ll lose your chance. Responsibility. Good? Good. Now grab your pens, we’re going over the syllabus together and you’re taking notes. Let’s begin.”

There was a shuffling as students reached into their new backpacks. A few eyed his flag or the Queen poster behind his desk as they moved. A small twist of anxiety wormed its way through his gut. _Calm down, Crowley. You’re here, you’re queer, you’re teaching. That’s what matters: you’re teaching._

Realistically, Crowley knew that students being aware of his sexuality was a non-issue. In fact, he had been a source of comfort and acceptance to queer students at his last school, a fact on which he prided himself. The problem was the administration. Always the administration. They had no problem with him when he kept his queerness to himself, but when Crowley started asking questions about what was being done to help LGBT+ students, he found himself in hot water. But that didn’t stop him from pressing the issue. When it became clear that the administration had no intention of explicitly helping queer students, Crowley took it upon himself to form an LGBT+ club as a sanctuary and safe place for queer and questioning students. The club wasn’t strictly…allowed, per se, as the administration had never approved it. When parents found out their students were participating in the club, they raised hell with the administration. Crowley had been summarily dismissed, his name now synonymous with disobedience in the educational world. His position at St. Isidore’s had been something of a miracle.

Crowley shook his head to clear the shadow of his previous job. St. Isidore’s was a new chance, a new beginning. Even though the school was intensely Catholic, Marjorie had assured him that he would find a safe working environment here. _I mean, look at Phil Eastgate,_ he thought, _There’s no way that man is straight. If someone like him can put down roots at St. Isidore’s, I can too._

\---

Crowley found the rest of the day going smoothly until his final class. Only twenty minutes remained in the school day. Students were hard at work quizzing each other on basic terms they had just gone over, and Crowley was wandering through the tables learning names and clarifying definitions. The door clicked open while he was amusedly answering the third question about his tattoo. He swiveled his head instinctively, smile still on his face, as Phil Eastgate entered the room. Phil met his eyes and shot him a small smile of his own, settling down on the nearest chair with a folder on his lap. He seemed to be watching the classroom. His eyes settled on the rainbow flag. 

A familiar uneasiness overtook Crowley. Sucking in a deep breath through his nose, he turned his head back to his students and forced himself to continue his lesson, letting himself get swept up in the energy of his students. When the final bell rang, Crowley dismissed his class and turned towards Phil.

“Tired of the main office already?” he teased, hoping desperately his tone didn’t betray his anxiety. He strode towards Phil on long legs, digging his fingers into his shallow pockets and tilting his head slightly. _Breathe, Crowley, you’re fine. It’s just a pop-in. You’ve done nothing wrong yet._

“Just wanted to check in, dear boy. It’s something of a first day tradition for myself. Some of the teachers with less experience tend to struggle with nerves on the first day, so I make it a point to pop in for moral support.” Phil flashed him a smile, all teeth and rounded cheeks, but his eyes betrayed something Crowley couldn’t quite place.

_Hesitancy? Christ, that can’t be good._ Crowley redoubled his efforts of casual indifference.

“How kind. I’m not exactly inexperienced, though, am I?” Crowley said, immediately regretting his choice of words. Kicking himself internally, he soldiered on, attempting to gloss over the accidental innuendo and reclaim some semblance of professionalism. “But thanks for coming by, I guess. Shows a real investment in your teachers.”

“No need to thank me. Frankly, I had a feeling you’d be fine on your own, which is why I didn’t stop by until the end of the day. I even heard students talking in the hallway about your class.”

Crowley flushed involuntarily. “Nothing good, I hope?”

“Only good, in fact! It seems the students are quite taken with you already. I can hardly blame them. Your classroom looks lovely and you show a genuine interest in the children. I’m sure they’ll be flocking to your door in no time,” Phil said, ending his sentence with a glance away and a faint grimace. He recovered quickly.

“At any rate, well done. I’ll leave you to wrap up your day on your own, Mr. Crowley.”

“It’s Crowley, please. And yeah, see you tomorrow I suppose.” Crowley rubbed the back of his neck and watched Phil exit the room, visibly deflating when the door swung shut. He slumped on his chair and let the pent up anxiety wash over him, legs splayed out in front of him. _For someone who’s so openly queer, you sure are a nervous wreck,_ he chastised himself. He replayed Eastgate’s reaction to the flag in his head, trying to decipher any clues as to his opinions on the subject. He sat with his head in his hands for several minutes before deciding he needed to gather his things and go home. Agonizing over micro-expressions would do him no good – he was just going to have to wait and see. It was going to be a long year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm @puppy-bums on tumblr if you'd like to swing by!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, the boys have returned. 
> 
> Thank you to @artemis for beta'ing!

Phil’s cell phone trilled loudly from his pocket, interrupting his review of the teacher observations conducted during the first week of class.

Even though his cellphone was indispensable in communicating quickly with teachers and parents, he didn’t like carrying it around – it felt like he had to be constantly ‘on,’ at anyone’s disposal, at any time. On how many occasions had a perfectly quiet evening alone been interrupted by a telemarketer - or worse, a colleague asking last minute questions about tomorrow’s staff meeting? When he knew his cellphone was on and within earshot, Phil found it difficult to enjoy his time at home, cozied up on his plush armchair with a book and light music permeating the room. The way he saw it, interrupting Liszt or Debussy in person with shrill noises would have been blasphemous, so why should the symphony in his home receive different treatment? And don’t even get him _started_ on disrupting his precious reading time at home. Those hours spent with his favorite authors, spirited away to whatever time or place the pages led him to, were a sacred respite from the endless demands that came with leading a private high school. No, the time he spent immersed in the pages of his personal library, grounding and soothing himself with the words of others, could not be sacrificed. His indulgent routines had certainly served him well in the past, and he had no intention of risking them with work calls.

Sighing, Phil reached for his phone, stifling a groan when he saw who was trying to reach him. Sitting up straighter in his office chair, he steeled himself for what he knew was coming.

“Hello, Gabriel.”

“Phil! So good to talk to you. How’s my favorite principal?”

Phil rolled his eyes. _Right on cue._ Not only was this his boss’ standard greeting for every employee (“How’s my favorite expenses clerk?” “There’s my favorite human resources representative!”), but Phil was the _only_ principal who reported to Gabriel in his position as Head of the School Board for St. Isidore’s Academy. “Very well, thank you, and yourself?”

“Well I’m still here, aren’t I?” a laugh boomed from the phone so loud that Phil had to physically move the receiver away from his ear, wincing at both the volume and the inane answer no doubt meant to invoke some sort of workplace levity. Another one of the ‘tips’ Gabriel no doubt picked up from the management seminars he frequently attended.

Unfortunately, Gabriel continued. “Actually, it seems that we’ve hit a bit of a snag. That’s why I’m calling.”

The wince deepened. _Lord give me strength._ “Ah. What can I help you with, Gabriel?”

“Well, the Board convened last week before school began, just to review the annual budget report, recruitment measures, campus beautification – you know, the usual.” He paused for half a moment. _Here it comes._ “Well, you wouldn’t exactly know, would you?” There it was: the jab about being principal rather than on the Board. Gabriel laughed at his own joke, and Phil’s lips instinctively pressed into a poor mockery of an indulgent smile as he waited for his boss to keep speaking. “Now I won’t lie to you, Phil, it seems most things are above board. You run a surprisingly tight ship.”

_Which you likely think is a small miracle indeed_ , he thought. “I’m glad you think so, Gabriel.” He wasn’t.

“We do have one problem, though. The Fine Arts Program. We seem to be facing a pretty hefty deficit from that department. It’s just too costly when compared to the other subjects.” Ah. The real reason for the call.

“If I understand correctly, the program costs are perfectly justifiable. The art teachers have been quite insistent on the painting supplies, the music department needs resin and acoustic panels and whatnot. Those seem like perfectly reasonable requests,” Phil said.

“I agree, those requests do sound reasonable to the untrained ear. Unfortunately, the Board knows the money’s just not there. The teachers will just have to do without this year. We need you to deliver that message.”

“Gabriel, our parents pay thousands of dollars a year for their students to attend St. Isidore’s! Should we not ensure that their students receive a comprehensive education? Surely that involves the proper supplies for the arts.” Phil knew that attempting to reason with Gabriel was a lost cause, especially when he had his mind made up already, but the teachers really had been insistent about their needs. What sort of principal couldn’t take care of their teachers?

“What are you talking about? A few paintbrushes won’t make that big of a difference to these kids. Or to the teachers, for that matter. Everybody knows that fine arts teachers are just glorified babysitters! The parents know it, too. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve met a single parent at St. Isidore’s who’s an artist or a musician or whatever.”

“Gabriel, I really must insist–“

“Phil. Aziraphale. Sunshine. Listen to me. Tell the fine arts teachers they’re not getting a dime from us this year. They’ll just have to make do,” Gabriel said firmly.

Phil shuddered at the thought of how that conversation would wind up going. He could picture the department head now: long black hair tied back to show her eyes blazing beneath thick rimmed spectacles, fingers pointed menacingly in his direction. Ms. Device was a force to be reckoned with on the best of days, and even though Phil knew he wasn’t responsible for the budget cuts, he also knew that he would bear the brunt of the teachers’ anger and frustration.

He sighed, resigned to the fact that the argument with Gabriel was lost. This was par for the course in conversations with his boss, though, as Phil had seemed to find himself on the losing side of nearly every disagreement since their days at university. At least this conversation was happening over the phone rather than within the walls of the apartment they once shared.

“Very well. I’ll share this with the department. Thank you for passing this along,” Phil said, gritting his teeth at the professional politeness he knew was expected of him.

“Great! Thanks again, sunshine.” The call ended.

Phil closed his eyes and rolled his head around, stretching out his neck to try to relieve the tension that interacting with Gabriel always evoked. He stood from his chair and absentmindedly adjusted his waistcoat, smoothing the front and tugging at the bottom edges, and exited his office. As he walked towards the Fine Arts Building, perhaps stopping to greet students he passed more than usual, he thought he knew exactly what was about to happen. He was brought up short upon opening the doors, though, and for once the unexpected scene before him left him left him pleasantly surprised.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: references to child neglect and arguments. be kind to yourselves.

Crowley hadn’t expected to find himself consoling a crying teenager at 2pm on a Thursday, but here he was. He passed a box of tissues to the teenager and patted him on the back wordlessly. In his own experience, people trying to talk to him while he was crying in front of them was equal parts mortifying and unhelpful. When he was upset, all he wanted was someone to sit near him and acknowledge the shittiness. No words meant no fake pity, no weird cooing noises, and no need to reassure the person comforting him that he was ‘fine, really.’ So Crowley stayed silent on the bench next to his student and looked at the far wall.

Warlock had approached him at the end of his class period, asking to talk about something personal. Crowley knew that if a student felt comfortable enough to open up to him after only a few weeks of school, 1) this was serious business, and 2) listening was now his first priority. Thankfully, the next class period was his planning time, which meant he could properly attend to Warlock without other students requiring his attention. Crowley waited for the hallways to clear as the hordes of high schoolers shuffled off to their next class, chatting animatedly, loudly cracking their gum*, and spraying each other with body spray pungent enough to knock a rhinoceros on its ass. Crowley fired off a quick text to the teacher of Warlock’s next class letting them know that he was with in Crowley’s care, and shepherded the student to a bench in a small alcove set off from the main hallway. It wasn’t the most private space, but large floor to ceiling windows and squashy seating made it a comfortable enough place to chat without being overheard. A trophy case glittered nearby, loudly declaring St. Isidore’s musical and artistic excellence.

_(*Strictly speaking, chewing gum was prohibited in St. Isidore’s, as is tradition in most American high schools. Mr. Eastgate, though, was known amongst the students and staff to be an enormous softie about this rule, so it was never officially enforced. Occasionally, flyers mentioning the benefits of chewing gum for people who struggle with anxiety and attention disorders appeared in staff mailboxes, and if they happened to be in the same font as the emails from Mr. Eastgate, no one spoke up.)_

Warlock dropped his backpack on the floor unceremoniously and threw himself on the cushy bench, dark hair swinging past his jaw. He jammed the palms of his hands onto his eyes. Words and tears began spilling out of him like an upturned cup of water.

“It’s my parents. They argue. A lot. Like, a _lot_. They just – I just don’t get how they can treat each other that way? We used to all be so happy together, but now it’s like living with two strangers in the same house.”

_Ah._

“I don’t understand why they can’t go back to the way it was before. I just – I just can’t take being in the same space as them, Crowley, I can’t do it. The house is so loud. Closing my door and blasting my music doesn’t even cover it up. I don’t know if I can bring myself to go home today,” Warlock ended and sucked in a deep breath, eyes still covered. His back heaved with the effort to control his breathing. A straggling student rushed towards the auditorium, late for theater class, but slowed when they saw the pair sitting on the bench. Crowley raised a single eyebrow, sharp enough to cut glass. The student skittered away.

Crowley nodded his head and chose his next words carefully. He remembered his own home at that age, just before his parents had kicked him out. He also remembered the emotions that came along with an unsafe and inescapable home life – the ones that seemed to sock you in the gut when you remembered you have to go home at the end of the day. Pervasive. Suffocating. Paralyzing. Crowley tamped down the familiar anger that rode the heels of his own memories. “Christ, that’s incredibly difficult, kid. Do you mind if I ask a few questions? You don’t have to answer them if you don’t want to.”

Warlock nodded his head. He still hadn’t looked up.

“Okay, thanks. Are you safe?”

“Yeah. They don’t…hit me or anything. They don’t even shout at me most of the time. It’s like nothing exists outside of their fights. It’s like I don’t exist.”

Crowley exhaled loudly. Before he could reply, Warlock spoke.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice quiet and wobbling, “I don’t mean to dump all of this on you. I just don’t know who else to talk to about all this.” At last, Warlock removed his hands from his eyes, now red-rimmed and puffy. Crowley’s heart broke for him.

Crowley nodded his head once to himself and made a decision. He hunched over, placing his elbows on his knees, and angled his head to make his eyes just barely visible behind his ever-present dark glasses. His eyes were a part of himself he rarely shared with others, but Crowley felt an acute kinship with the kid. After all, Warlock had just bared his soul to Crowley; surely Crowley could show a little vulnerability in response. Warlock clearly sensed the gravity of the situation and met his teacher’s eyes with his own, now watery but firm.

“This is really tough. I’m not gonna lie. It’s really, unfairly difficult to have to be in the position you’re in. You are incredibly strong for talking about this at all, and quite frankly, while I have no clue why you chose _me_ to speak to, I’m f – “ he changed course abruptly “- _darn_ honored to be that person.” Warlock cracked a small smile as Crowley continued, “Would you like me to find a way to help you? Or would you like me to be there when you want to talk? Or do you want me to walk away and never speak of this again?”

Warlock paused, turning his head to look across the athletic fields and to the buildings beyond. “I’m not really sure.”

“That’s okay. You don’t have to be sure. I do have a few ideas for things you can do to make it easier on yourself, though, if you’d like to hear them. Do you take the bus home?”

“No, I walk. We live just around the corner.”

“Would it be possible to spend afternoons at a friend’s house?”

At this, Warlock paused. The thought that Warlock may not have a close enough friend for that possibility flitted across Crowley’s mind. _Shit, are we really that similar?_ Crowley cast about for more ideas. A door opened and closed somewhere.

“Or maybe headphones? Noise-cancelling headphones can be useful. Exercising, too. That can be good, it gives your brain something else to focus on instead of the fighting.” Warlock looked warily at Crowley. “Really, though, walking’s the best. I used to walk for hours around my neighborhood when my parents fought. As long as you’re safe about it. ‘S breathing space. Maybe ev – “

Crowley was brought up short by the astonished look Warlock was shooting just past his shoulder. Turning in his seat, his eyes fell upon a disgruntled Phil Eastgate who was sporting an equally astonished look on his own face.

“Oh! I’m so terribly sorry – didn’t mean to interrupt – just wanted to speak with Ms. Device. Is everything, ah, is everything okay?”

Crowley opened his mouth to answer but no words came out. Somehow, Phil was glowing. Light was streaming in from the windowed door behind him and sunlight seemed to catch in his hair. His cheeks were slightly pink – probably from traversing the athletic fields in September heat all buttoned up like an Oxford professor, Crowley reasoned. _What is that, anyway? Why the bowtie? Why the waistcoat? Mind you, it does look soft. Does it feel soft?_ Crowley jerked himself out of his thoughts and into the present.

“Everything’s alright here. Just chatting with Warlock here.”

“Hello, Warlock, dear boy,” Phil said, leaning to aim a soft smile in Warlock’s direction.

“Hi, Mr. Eastgate.”

“Mist – er, Crowley, I’m heading to Ms. Device’s room to speak with her about some news I’ve just received. I believe it would be best if you accompanied me, as the information directly affects you as well.” Phil’s face retained its soft expression, but the line of his shoulders betrayed a quiet tension. Crowley’s childhood taught him to read body language like Goosebumps book, where foreshadowing is easily spotted and the results are predictable. It seemed Phil masking some distress, but Crowley didn’t know if it was for Warlock’s or his own benefit.

“Warlock, do you think you’ll be alright to head back to class?” Crowley asked.

“Yeah, I’ll be okay. Will you let Ms. Terry know I’m on my way?”

“Of course. Thanks for talking with me, Warlock. Let me know if my suggestions help. Or if they’re garbage. Let me know that, too.”

Warlock allowed a small laugh as he gathered his things and headed for the door. “Bye guys. Thanks, Crowley.”

“Any time, kid. See you tomorrow.”

As the door swung shut behind Warlock, Crowley looked up from his seat on the bench at Phil. Phil had begun shifting his weight between his feet nervously. Crowley’s curiosity was piqued.

“Well what brings you out to the boonies today, Eastgate?”

“It seems we’re in a bit of a budget pinch. It concerns all of the fine arts teachers. I came here to speak with Ms. Device during her off-period, but if you’re available as well, it’s best if you join us.”

In the entirety of Anthony J. Crowley’s life, never once has he felt amenable to attend a meeting. Today, for the first time in his existence, Anthony J. Crowley found himself cautiously neutral about a meeting – at work – that had been sprung on him at the last second. Crowley chalked it up to curiosity about the budget, but in reality, there was something about Phil that seemed to draw Crowley in. He wanted to get to know the halo-haired principal of St. Isidore’s, the unassumingly kind man with both an invitingly soft torso and the strength to wear an unironic bowtie in front of teenagers and _make it work_. The thought came unbidden that Crowley didn’t think he’d mind a few extra minutes with his boss.

“Well, Eastgate,” he said, slapping his hands on his knees before standing to his full height, “after you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Under no circumstances would I ever count child neglect as 'safe' or 'safer' than physical or other abuse. Warlock doesn't quite understand, though, which is why he answers Crowley's question about safety with a yes.
> 
> Yell at me on tumblr: @puppy-bums.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: references to homophobia

By the time Crowley, Ms. Device, and Phil were all seated around a student table in the art classroom, Phil had gotten his nerves under control. It wasn’t like him to show such emotion in front of staff members, as he made a point to provide a supportive if not downright cheerful face to his colleagues and students, but the sight of Crowley comforting Warlock had thrown him for a bit of a loop. Phil settled into an unforgiving blue plastic chair, thankful that his emotions were once again banked in favor of his usual steadiness, finished being shaken by the contradiction of his knee-jerk assessment of the music teacher. 

It’s not that Phil didn’t  _ like _ Crowley. He did. Crowley was remarkably good with students. He seemed to know his content inside and out. He was moderately pleasant in the staff room.  _ He’s nice to look at _ , his mind supplied. It had been a while since Phil had been involved with anyone romantically, and tall men with a passion for educating were always a weakness of his. Unfortunately, Crowley seemed to fit the bill. Fortunately, Crowley was his employee, and Phil was far too invested in his job to risk it over a pair of tight black pants and a flattering blazer. 

Even if he were to ignore professional standards, Phil was wary of the man. Crowley felt too put-together, too self-assured to be allowed any closer than arm’s length. Phil had played with that particular fire before, and he wasn’t like to play again. He knew how people that burned too brightly could hurt. 

“Thank you for joining me,” Phil began. “I have some rather unfortunate news that I thought would be better delivered in person.”

Ms. Device, Anathema to her friends and to Phil when they were getting sloshed at the bar just off-campus, folded her arms across her chest. Her circular glasses enlarged her eyes unnaturally, lending her an aura of omniscience. It worked wonders with her students.

“Have you been speaking with the Board again?” she asked. As it happened, her knowing expression also worked wonders with Phil, as he was rarely able to keep information from her for long. Many evenings had been passed together at a sticky corner table with drinks in their hands, each complaining in increasingly loud voices about this or that. Typically, their rants revolved around their unfortunate love lives, the miserable music choices being piped through the speakers, and the St. Isidore School Board’s comically out of touch leadership. The School Board’s communication must have been written all over his face.

He took a deep breath and let it out slowly through his nose, casting his eyes at his hands that were now crossed neatly on the table in front of him. This was never going to be a pleasant conversation. He looked directly at her and steeled himself. “Yes.” 

Anathema scoffed and leaned back in her chair, shooting a look out the window that had ‘I know what’s about to happen’ all over it. “Alright then. Out with it.”

“It seems we - St. Isidore’s - face a bit of a predicament with the budget this year. Gabriel Arkson has informed me that the Board has found a way to alleviate the school’s deficit, but the solution comes at the expense of the Fine Arts Department. The department will receive no funding whatsoever from the Board. Everything you have stored away now is what you have to work with this school year.” 

Anathema’s jaw dropped. “Are you  _ kidding me _ ?”

He shook his head, lips pursed in commiseration. 

“Phil, there’s - there’s  _ got _ to be something you can do about this. Anything.”

“Unfortunately not. Gabriel seemed quite...determined...when I spoke with him earlier. He simply wouldn’t hear any counter arguments or alternative solutions. I’m afraid his and the Board’s minds are quite made up.” 

The chair tipped dangerously as Anathema forced herself up from her chair, stalking across the room to her desk. She scowled as she grabbed her coffee mug and took a long swig, letting out a short breath as she bought the mug down and held it in her hand. She quieted for a moment, jaw clenched, fixing a cup of pens with an icy glare. Phil watched her impassively, awaiting the next wave of anger that was sure to come. Several seconds ticked by.

Anathema slammed her mug back down and whirled towards the table.

“This is unacceptable.” Her eyes flashed as she waved a finger in Phil’s direction. “We’ve been barely scraping by for years now on the  _ crumbs _ the Board has deigned to toss our way. Rescinding all funding will be the death of this department, Phil, mark my words.”

He brought his hands to his lap, fingers still interlaced, and kept his voice amiable and level. “I’m sure we’ll find a way to move forward, Ms. Device, we’ve done it before.” 

Anathema’s only response was a harsh sneer, teeth bared as she plopped herself unceremoniously back in the student chair. She crossed her legs and arms forcefully, wrapping her colorful scarves closer to her body as she ducked her head. “Fucking Gabriel,” she muttered under her breath.

Phil suppressed a sigh as he turned to Crowley, expecting an equally loud pushback from the teacher who paraded around in sunglasses and Doc Martens. He hadn’t moved since he had initially sat down, knees splayed but jiggling incessantly, but the man looked like a walking fire accelerant. Phil braced himself and schooled his features into a neutral facade. 

“Alright. What do we do about it?”

His brain went momentarily offline.

“Beg pardon?” tumbled out of Phil’s mouth before he could think - straight face be damned. 

“What do we do about it?” Crowley repeated earnestly, leaning further over the desk. Phil felt pinned, scrutinized by the world’s most UV-ray-protected microscope.

“Oh, ah, yes. Wonderful question. Next steps and all that. Anathema - ah, Ms. Device - has been Department Head for several years now. Words of wisdom for our newcomer, perhaps?” He looked at Anathema beseechingly, hoping she could pick up on his bewilderment even in her current state of distress. 

In his decades of teaching and principalship, Phil had come to believe that nothing could surprise him anymore. Student behavior, parent reactions, teaching moves - he had seen it all before and taken it in stride. He had witnessed cafeteria brawls, walked in on sordid moments in the teachers’ lounge, sprinted after a loose class pet, and on one memorable occasion, expertly dodged a pen lobbed at him during a Parent-Teacher Association meeting. He knew that when Anathema heard the budget news, she would wind herself up but get the job done admirably anyway. If Crowley’s predecessor was still here, he knew he’d have to endure a very loud, spit-riddled diatribe about the extra work required by fundraising. It had been quite some time since Phil was genuinely taken aback by someone at work, and somehow Crowley had managed it twice in under ten minutes. He would have felt indignant if he weren’t busy trying to realign his perception of Crowley once again. Who gave this man with unnecessarily good cheekbones the right to fluster him so? 

Anathema raised an eyebrow at Phil nearly imperceptibly and turned to face Crowley. Bless her. “This isn’t the first year we’ve faced a reduced budget. We’ve seen funding from the Board slow to a trickle the last few years. I suppose this year they just couldn’t justify the measly couple hundred dollars they usually toss our way,” she grumbled, giving Crowley a short once over. Sizing him up as a worthy teammate. “Aggressive fundraising is usually how we find the money to meet program costs, so I guess we’ll just have to double down on that this year. I assume you’re willing to help, Crowley?”

Crowley leaned forward, laying his hands flat on the table, palms upward in asupplicating manner. The sleeves of his black blazer pulled back, revealing wrists lightly dusted with auburn hair. “Absolutely. When do we start?”

“As soon as humanly possible. Most of our students come from fairly affluent families, but convincing them to part with their money for the sake of the Fine Arts Program isn’t always easy, what with Fine Arts Programs being undervalued and all that. I’m sure you’re familiar.”

“Believe me, I know,” Crowley nodded sourly. 

Phil stared at Crowley’s hands splayed on the table.

“In the past we’ve sold cookie dough and candles, but those bombed. We’ve also held car washes and bake sales - those go over slightly better with the parents. Maybe because they’re more experiential? I don’t know. But I guess we’ll have to get creative this year, since we’re going to have to raise more money than in previous years.” 

“Right,” Crowley looked out the window, exposing the long lines of his neck, silhouetted against the white wall behind him. Phil felt a swooping sensation in his gut at the sight.  _ Oh, good Lord,  _ he chastised himself.  _ Get a grip, you miserable thing. _

Phil cleared his throat and attempted to be a Very Professional Principal. “Ms. Device, please ask me or Tracy if there’s anything you require to make fundraising easier. The Board may not be willing,” he rolled his eyes, his balance returning once again, “but I’m happy to help.” 

Crowley smirked in his direction and his stomach swooped again. 

Phil shifted in his seat to check his watch. You know, like a professional. “I’d best be off, though. I have a meeting with the instructional team in…” he registered the time with a jolt, “...oh dear, three minutes ago.” Phil gathered his things and rose from his chair, glancing at Crowley and managing a neutral voice. “Thank you for being willing to help with such a large undertaking, Crowley, especially considering your newness to the team. I’m afraid you’ve joined us at a rather inopportune time, and for that I am quite sorry.”

Crowley gazed up at Phil, eyes inscrutable behind his sunglasses, and let out a small sigh. “I’m no stranger to administrative bu- uh, nonsense. It’s for the kids, though, innit? We do what we have to. For them.” He leaned back, lengthening his spine again and arranging his spindly legs under the student table in a configuration heretofore unknown to the DC-Metro area. Phil tried desperately not to appreciate the lean, sinuous lines of Crowley’s body, and wondered if his tattoo wasn’t randomly chosen. 

“Ah. Yes.” Phil pulled at the bottom of his waistcoat. “Well, I must be off. Ms. Device, if you could share this information with the rest of your team, I would be very grateful.” Anathema grimaced but nodded her head as Phil bid his goodbyes and left the room. If he was still flustered when he arrived at his next meeting, he refused to believe it was due to anything but his tardiness. 

\---

Crowley watched Phil leave the room, eyes following his customary soft beige waistcoat despite the September warmth. He had initially questioned the man’s waistcoats and formal jackets in a high school setting, but Crowley also knew his own commitment to black clothing in middle age meant he wasn’t in the position to judge anyone’s sartorial choices. The door clicked behind Phil as Crowley turned to Anathema, who was already puttering around the room to prepare for her next class. 

Crowley stood and gathered his limbs, a wince ghosting across his face at the twinge of pain in his back. “You alright, then?”

“Oh, just peachy!” came a voice behind the drying racks currently being wheeled to the corner. 

“You sure? You seemed ready to smash something just a moment ago.”

“Oh, I’ll be fine. Phil knows that I can be a little intense when I feel that something’s unfair. He lets me work through, get it all out of my system.” 

Crowley bobbed his head, unsure if he would have handled the situation the same was as his boss.

“So, uh. Lots of fundraising this year. Forgive my asking, but how did my predecessor handle all this?” he waved his hand around, landing it on the back of his neck sheepishly. “What sort of shoes am I being expected to fill here?”

Anathema emerged from the drying racks carrying a stack of watercolor paper and laughed. She did seem lighter than before. “Crowley,  _ anything _ you do will be welcome. Frankly, your predecessor was kind of crap.” Crowley lifted an eyebrow. “Let’s just say...they weren’t planning on retiring so early.” 

Crowley waited for Anathema to elaborate, aware that the clock was ticking on his off-period. He needed to shove a granola bar in his face if he was supposed to stand up in front of children for the rest of the day, but this felt more important.

“Well, you have to understand that he was never really cut out to be a teacher in the first place. Hated it. The kids could tell, and hated him right back. Didn’t help that he wore the same dirty coat every day. It stank horribly. But he stuck around for the paycheck, and unfortunately for everyone, he was technically not terrible at his job. Kids left his room knowing how to sight read, the basics of music theory, the whole shebang.” She shrugged. “Everyone was miserable, but it didn’t look like it was going to change. Until last year.” Her tone lightened as she glanced at Crowley, eyes sparkling with mirth. “Listen, I really try not to speak ill of colleagues - that’s horrible karma - but this guy was a piece of work. He must have gotten too comfortable in his position, because he started making his  _ opinions _ known.” 

“Opinions?”

“Oh yes. First it was about the cafeteria food. Insulted a cafeteria worker straight to their face, yelling about avocados or something. Phil was livid and gave him some sort of reprimand, but that didn’t stop him. The guy would walk through the hallways making snide comments at other teachers. The last straw was close to the end of the year.” She slowed her puttering, widening her already large eyes and barely keeping the glee from her voice. “He went off on Phil.”

“He  _ what _ ?” Crowley asked, incredulous.

“Yeah!” Anathema shook her head disbelievingly. “He and Phil were in the hallway monitoring a passing period. Phil has addressed him for being snippy with a student and then he just lost it. Started shouting about how Phil was a terrible principal because he’s queer. Used some pretty choice homophobic words. It was a disaster.”

Crowley stared, stunned. He had been on the receiving end of his fair share of queerphobic rants, even from colleagues, but how could anyone behave so atrociously to someone so inoffensively nice? “Shit. How did he - how did he handle it?”

“He just stood there until the guy was all shouted out, stood perfectly still and looked him in the eyes all the way through. The students who watched it happen said it was eerie how cool and collected he seemed with someone spitting obscenities in his face. When it was over, Phil asked him to speak in his office, and then he was never seen on campus again.”

“Holy shit.”

“Yup.” Anathema popped the ‘p.’

The recorded church bells tolled over the speakers to end the class period. Crowley waved at Anathema and picked his way through the crush of students back to his own room, caught up in the image of Eastgate firmly planted against a vicious tirade, like a lighthouse in a crashing sea. As he welcomed students into his room, his mind turned over the calm that the man had exuded as Anathema stormed around the room, choosing to wait for his colleague to feel their emotions rather than shove them down and ensuring that the discussion could move forward productively. Crowley wondered if he truly felt that calm, or if the cool exterior was a front for others’ benefit. Was that the face he wore last spring? A creeping sensation worked its way up Crowley’s back at the thought of how often Eastgate must have to project such calm as a gay man in a Catholic education leadership position. 

The unassuming bow ties and soft waistcoats truly were a mismatch for the unwavering strength that wore them. 

The tardy bell rang and Crowley closed his door, mind still stuck on Eastgate. Ugh. The granola bar would have to wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yell at me on tumblr @ puppy-bums.tumblr.com


End file.
